His cell phone rings, the sound breaking his concentration and making him jump. He looks at the display. It’s Schroder.
“How you feeling?” Schroder asks.
“Not the best. Just getting ready to go to bed. What’s happening?”
“A lot’s been happening,” Schroder says. “We’ve spoken to about a hundred people. We’ve got more interviews scheduled for tomorrow. You’re coming in?”
“I’m not sure. I hope so.”
“We could really use you,” Schroder says.
“I know.”
A pause, and then, “Is there anything else going on? You seem a little off.”
“I’m just tired,” he says, staring at the washing machine as he talks. “That’s all. And feeling sick. Something I ate.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing.”
“We got a report of a car speeding away around five a.m., from one of the neighbors, but she didn’t see it. Just heard it.”
“Anything else?”
“Not yet. But there’s a lot to look at. I’m confident this time tomorrow we’ll have something to work with. Hope you make it in.”
“I hope so too.”
Back outside Landry lights up a cigarette to help keep the demons at bay. This used to be his favorite time of the day because normally he’d be sipping a beer and watching TV. Now he’s one statistic trying to solve another. In the distance a dog is barking, and a few moments later it is joined by another and another.
He gets his phone back out of his pocket. He calls the station. Ends up chatting to another detective. Detective Inspector Wilson Hutton. Hutton is the kind of guy you wouldn’t want to leave with your wife, not because he’ll try and sleep with her, but because he might try and eat her. He’s at least a hundred pounds overweight, and Landry has often wondered how the guy is managing to keep his job. He gives Hutton the dates he learned from Charlie’s emails.
“There anything reported from around that time?”
“Care to narrow it down?” Hutton asks.
“Something from a bar. A bar fight maybe?”
“Any names?”
“No.”
“Has this got anything to do with the double homicide?”
“Nothing. Just curious about something, that’s all.”
“Give me ten minutes,” he says.
He gets into his car. Feldman is on the run, but he’s sure the guy will come back. Guys like that always do when they figure out they have nowhere else to go. It won’t be tonight. But Landry will find him, and if he doesn’t find him tomorrow, then he’ll come back here every night until he does. He spends ten seconds coughing hard enough for his chest to feel like it’s on fire. He flicks the cigarette-this one half-finished-out the window and is tempted to send the rest of the pack with it, but temptation gives way to sanity and he hangs on to them. For now.
He gets out his notepad. He’d jotted down the details of Feldman’s parents and the wife he’s separated from. He figures it’s too late to ring the parents, but he gives the wife a call. She doesn’t answer. He gets out a map from the glove compartment and looks up her address. It’s less than ten minutes from here. He figures he can swing by her place on the way home. She might have an idea where a guy like Feldman might run.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I get halfway into my car when I stop. With every passing second I become more and more convinced that by coming here, I’ve put Jo in danger. Last night was one big display of what a crazy man can do, and if nothing else, Cyris was a whole lot of crazy. Will he come looking for me?
I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t see how he can know who I am. Except he saw my car, he could track me down from the registration plate. Kathy had my details too. I gave her my name and phone number-what happened to that piece of paper? Could Cyris have found it? Okay-so he can figure out who I am. There’s every chance he will come looking for me and, by extension, he could look for those I love. I need to warn my parents. Need to warn my friends.
I carry on walking to my car. I need to go to the police. Of course I do. Will they believe me? I stand by what I said to Jo. If they don’t believe me, they’ll certainly convict me. And if the evidence is there to prove Cyris exists, how long until they act on it? I could go in there and within fifteen minutes there’ll be a manhunt for Cyris. Or I could go in there and sit in an interrogation room for the next twenty-four hours while Cyris is on the loose killing more people.
I need to find him. Need to stop him. Need to make him pay for what he did. And while that’s happening, Jo needs to leave town for a few days. I head back to the front door.
I’ve known Jo eight years. We were married for six, five and a half of those happily. We’re still married now, technically. She’d never betray me. She’d never turn me in. But we’re in the Real World now and trust isn’t a quality I can hope for. Yet it’s one I cling to when I step back inside and find Jo hanging up the phone.
“What the hell?” I say, closing the door behind me, resisting the urge to slam it.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says, “but it’s not what you think. I was calling a friend.”
“Who?”
“Somebody you don’t know. I hung up before they answered.”
“A boyfriend?” I ask, hearing the jealousy in my voice and annoyed at myself for it.
“It’s none of your business,” she says.
“You were calling the police, weren’t you.”
“No.” I want to believe her, I really do. “You promised you’d leave,” she says.
“How much did you tell the police?” I ask.
“It wasn’t the police,” she says. “First of all you come here and. .”
“How much, Jo? Are they on their way?”
“Stop shouting, Charlie.”
“I’m not shouting! How much did you tell them?”
“I haven’t said a word. I told you nobody answered.”
I move over to the phone. Jo steps back from it. I twist it so I can see the display. It’s lit up because it was just in the process of being used. It shows a 1 and another 1 on the display, and then it goes dark and the 1s disappear. She was two thirds of the way to calling for help. Jo grabs at the phone, but before she can snatch it up I push her away. She stumbles into the kitchen bench and falls. When she looks up at me her eyes flash with tears and anger and as bad as I’ve felt all day, seeing her on the floor like that makes me feel even worse. I let the phone go so it dangles on its cord, reaching the floor.
“I’m sorry,” I say, moving toward her. “I didn’t mean. .”
“Get out, you bastard. I can’t believe you did that, but I guess that makes me stupid, doesn’t it. I should have known.”
“Yeah? Why?” I ask, but I know why. Because of that night six months ago.
“Just get out,” she says.
“I’m sorry, Jo. I was just trying. .”
“Get! Out!”
No, no, this is wrong. All wrong. I just need to convince her of that. I put my hands out in a warding-off gesture, an I have no rabbits hidden up my sleeve gesture. “I’m sorry, Jo, I’m stressed, that’s all, I’m stressed.”
“Get the hell out, Charlie.”
“Jo. .”
“I want you to leave,” she says.
“Why? So you can not call the police again?”
“So what are you going to do, Charlie? Are you going to kill me too?”
Her comment isn’t a physical slap, but I react as though it is. I stammer for a few seconds, trying to say something that will convince her that she’s safe, but is she? “How can you think I killed them?”
“What am I supposed to think?”
“You’re supposed to trust me.”